


Texan Intersection

by Anonymous



Category: The 1975 (Band)
Genre: Bladder Control, George and Matty are friends with benefits, Kink Exploration, M/M, Omorashi, Wetting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:54:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24323875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: It wasn’t meant to be this way.Matty could see how all the pieces had piled up to put him in this situation, and he supposed he had nobody to blame but himself. He’d had a spliff, and then he’d needed a drink, and then the Texan heat and the weed had gone to his head and he’d fallen asleep on the couch. When he woke up, he’d missed a rest stop, which wouldn’t usually be a problem, except he really had to piss.
Relationships: George Daniel/Matthew Healy
Comments: 13
Kudos: 60
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Accidents Happen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ib that one line in roadkill. yk the one.  
> im sorry for writing this but also there are no 1975 pissfics and i am a renowned piss merchant and i had to do something with that one lyric in roadkill i just had to

It wasn’t meant to be this way. 

Matty could see how all the pieces had piled up to put him in this situation, and he supposed he had nobody to blame but himself. He’d had a spliff, and then he’d needed a drink, and then the Texan heat and the weed had gone to his head and he’d fallen asleep on the couch. When he woke up, he’d missed a rest stop, which wouldn’t usually be a problem, except he _really_ had to piss.

“Why the fuck didn’t you wake me up?” he asked George for the fourth time since he’d woken up. 

He was tense, angry at his friend, yes, but mostly angry at himself. Yeah, it would have been nice for George to wake him up, but on the other hand, he was a grown man. If he couldn’t hold it until they next stopped, he should have thought about it before he went to sleep. But he _could_ wait until they next stopped, and he _would_. He’d be damned if he was going to piss himself in this bus like a fucking toddler. 

“Sorry, mate,” George said again, only looking up from his phone to share a look with Ross, who was sat beside him, and clearly wanted nothing to do with the mood that Matty was in. 

George seemed to have accepted that he would probably not let the ‘not waking him up’ thing go until they next stopped — at which point, Matty would probably glare at him as he got off the bus, and then bring him a can of coke as a peace offering, and then everything would be normal again. Matty wanted to explain that he wasn’t actually annoyed, that he was just high-strung and tense because he needed to piss, but the thought of saying it out loud made his skin crawl. 

He tried to take his mind off it by messing with his phone, but there was nothing that would hold his attention. The thought of sitting down with a film felt hopeless; he’d just be staring at the time passing and not pay any attention, becoming acutely aware with every passing second of how long it had been since he’d last used the bathroom. He wound up just sitting at the central table in their tour-bus equivalent of a living room with his head resting on his folded arms, eyes closed, playing with some lyrics in his head that had been troubling him for a while. 

That held his attention for a bit; he wasn’t sure how long. He could mostly focus on it and not think about the pressure building in his bladder, just press his thighs together and try not to squirm too obviously. Whenever the bus went over a pothole, he shuddered, and the last few that they hit had him fighting not to leak into his jeans. _God, what a joke. A piss-take, you might say._

He sat up, wincing against the light, as he heard someone moving about. It was just Adam, emerging from his bunk, face still a little bleary with sleep. He must have gone in for a nap after they’d stopped. Matty tried not to look like anything was wrong. Adam came and sat by him, hands fidgeting with his water bottle. The sight of it was making Matty’s head swim. He had to find a place on the wall to fix his eyes and just keep them there. 

He was so focused on not thinking about the waves of desperation running through him, and trying not to hear the sounds of the water moving inside Adam’s bottle, that he missed most of the conversation going on between his bandmates beside him, until George said, ‘Matty?’

“Hm?”

“What do you think?”

George was looking at him — they were all looking at him. Suddenly he was very conscious of his legs bouncing under the table. He forced himself to sit normally, and then realised that he absolutely _could not do that,_ so settled with crossing his legs and hoping that none of them asked about it. 

“Sorry,” he said, “I was miles away. What’s going on?”

George’s lip curled. “Yeah? What’s on your mind?”

Matty narrowed his eyes at him. On its own, the question seemed innocent enough. Ross and Adam didn’t even seem to notice it. But Matty knew. He knew that George knew; that he really needed to go, that he didn’t want to talk about it or let the rest of them know or even think about it at all, really. 

“‘S not important,” he said sharply, fixing George with a look that said _do not push it_. “What was the question?”

“We’re going to stop soon, and then Ross and I are going to get pizza. Is that okay with you?”

Matty had to physically stop himself from letting out a sigh of relief. 

“Yeah, whatever.”

Thank fuck for that. Okay, he thought, it was all going to be okay. He could hold out for just a little longer. If he just put it out of his mind, just threw himself into a different area of focus, he could ignore it for a little longer, and then when they stopped, he could get off the bus and run to the nearest bathroom. At worst, he would have to piss behind the bus itself. Usually, the thought would make him wrinkle his nose, but he was past caring. 

After George said it, though, he couldn’t think of anything but what it would feel like to finally let go. Every bump in the road seemed to increase his need tenfold. He was hyperaware of every movement he made; everything he did sent waves of desperation crashing through him, forcing him to go entirely still, just pressing his thighs together and taking a deep breath to stop himself from leaking — actually leaking. He felt foolish; he was an adult. He could hold it. He had to hold it. He wasn’t a child. He could hold it. He had to hold it. He had to. 

Adam and Ross definitely knew. Matty couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Every fibre of his being was focused on holding on. Just hold on, just a little longer, it wouldn’t be long now, he could hold it, he could wait.

He only noticed that one of his hands was clamped between his thighs when he caught himself rocking forward against it and almost enjoying it. _What the fuck?_

That was something he would definitely have to unpack later. Was he one of _those people_ now? The kind of person who jerked off to the fact that they had to piss? He didn’t think so. But then, he had been all but grinding against his hands. There wasn’t space in his head for it right now. He could think about it tonight, after dinner maybe, when he wasn’t in the eyeline of his bandmates, when his mind wasn’t taken up with thoughts of keeping control. He could think about it in his bunk, maybe, with one hand inside his sleep pants and one hand clamped over his mouth. 

“How long till we stop?” he asked, trying to seem offhanded. He did not miss the way George’s lip curled. _Sick fucker._

“Why? Don’t think you can hold it?” His tone was taunting, but there was something of a genuine question underneath it. Matty glared at him, hating the way that his words made something between his legs ache and bed for attention. He wasn’t sure exactly which part of himself it was. 

“Fuck you,” he spat, “Just, how long?”

“I don’t know,” George said, and Matty could tell he was being genuine. “Half an hour?”

Matty cursed under his breath, resting his cheek on his free palm. He could wait half an hour, he told himself. He could, and he would. Half an hour was nothing. It was, what, half an album? If he put his headphones in and just picked one — something to occupy his thoughts, something he could really think about — he wouldn’t even have to finish it before he could go. 

At the thought of letting go, however, his body seemed to get ahead of him, and he caught himself just before a leak escaped him. _Fuck, fuck, fuck_ — he could hold it, he _had to_ hold it. He was an adult. He could hold it. It seemed, though, that he had to keep his attention solely on remaining in control of his bladder. _God, this was degrading._ He would have to force George to promise never to bring it up again. Ross and Hann didn’t seem too interested in teasing him — thank God. 

Time crept by as if it was trying to taunt him personally. He checked his phone, and then an eternity passed, and he checked it again, and it had been three minutes. He couldn’t sit still now; if he wasn’t crossing and uncrossing his legs, he was bouncing them up and down anxiously, squeezing his thighs together, rocking back and forth in a way that he hoped didn’t make him look unhinged. 

The bus hit a pothole in the road and a hot leak shot out of him. An involuntary whine arose from the back of his throat. Adam gave him a sympathetic look. Matty felt his face turning a deep red.

The waistband of his jeans was cutting painfully into his swollen bladder; if he undid them, maybe he would feel a little better, but he could hardly just sit there with his fly down. The thought alone was infuriating. He couldn’t bear to look, but he was acutely aware that underneath his hands, there was a very visible wet patch on his blue jeans the size of a baseball. 

It was starting to hurt. He was walking a fine line between needing to keep his thoughts focused on staying in control, and not being able to think about his desperation too much, lest he start crying. He had to push down frustrated tears several times when he was hit with a particularly strong wave of need. George noticed — because of course he did — and came to sit beside him. 

“Are you alright?” he said, and he was being genuine. Matty bit his lip; he wanted to cry again. 

“‘S so bad,” he whispered, feeling his cheeks flush red, and George settled an arm around his shoulders. 

“It’s okay. It won’t be long now,” he said, and Matty nodded, wishing his words to be true. He leaned against George’s side, trying to take some comfort in his warm, comfortable presence. Whatever tension there had been between them earlier had entirely dissolved, as it always did, and George was past teasing. He could see that Matty was actually struggling. By his side, it seemed somewhat easier to stay calm, and Matty didn’t find himself wanting to cry as much. It would be okay; how could it not be okay? George was here. 

After one more agonising pothole and at least two more accidental leaks, the bus finally drew to a stop. Matty could have sobbed with relief. Standing up made the pressure on his bladder change drastically, and he had to stay still for a moment with his legs clamped together like a vice to stop himself from losing control completely. He struggled to open the door with his unsteady hands, and then the cool night air hit him like a train. He jammed a hand between his legs and bent almost double, stilling once again to fight his body for control over his bladder. He was so close, he could practically feel the relief washing over him, he was determined not to fall at the final hurdle.

They were well and truly in the middle of nowhere; there was nothing close enough that he would be able to shuffle over and use the bathroom. He didn’t even care; he would go behind the bus. Hell, he would have gone in the middle of the road, just as long as he could go. 

He darted around to the other side of the bus, steadying himself with one hand on the warm metal. Unbuttoning his jeans immediately alleviated some of the pressure, but it was nowhere near enough; his body knew that release was so close, but the knowledge made it all the worse. His hands shook as he tugged his zipper halfway down, and then — oh no. _No, no, please, God, no._ It couldn’t be. No— It wasn’t— But it _was_. It was stuck. 

The tears rose up in his eyes again now, and he couldn’t stop them from spilling onto his face. He spent a moment bouncing in place, not caring that he looked like a literal toddler, as long as he didn’t _actually_ piss himself. 

“Please, please, please,” he breathed as he tugged at the zipper, but it wouldn’t budge. He cursed, louder than he had intended, cringing at the tear-strain and high pitch of his voice. He truly couldn’t hold it much longer, and nothing he was doing was helping to alleviate his desperation. 

“Matty?” George’s voice rang out from the other side of the bus. Fuck, fuck, fuck, _no_ , George could not see him like this. “Are you alright?”

He couldn’t reply; he had to bite his tongue to keep himself from sobbing. George peered around the corner, and then just stood there for a moment, as if drinking the sight of him in. Matty felt more exposed than he ever had under George’s gaze; tears on his face, a wet patch on his jeans the size of his fist. 

“It’s stuck,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper, and George came closer tentatively. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and Matty wanted to scream. 

“The zip,” he said again, voice dropping even lower now that George was close to him. “It’s stuck.”

Matty resented the pity on George’s face; he hated that he was in this situation, that he was in a place where he could evoke so much pity that it showed on George’s features. 

“Can I—?” George asked, voice low as if sharing a secret. He was looking at the fly of Matty’s jeans. 

It was this, Matty thought, or pissing himself. It wouldn’t be the first time George’s hands had been this close to his dick, and yet, it felt more intimate and close than anything they had ever done before. He looked up and caught George’s gaze, but had to look away just as quickly, because it was making his face turn redder than it already was, and he was starting to feel lightheaded. He nodded minutely, but George’s hands were already on his jeans. He tugged at the zip, trying to move it in either direction, but it was firmly snagged in the denim. Another sob rose in Matty’s chest, but he just about managed to bite it back, and then George’s hand pressed just a little too firmly against his bladder, and he all but broke down. 

Just that little bit of extra pressure had been too much, and a long spurt escaped him. He was whining pitifully, trying to find the words to tell George to stop, but all that would come from his mouth was _‘no, no no’._ He couldn’t stop; piss came pouring out of him, soaking his jeans, running down his legs, splashing embarrassingly loudly onto the concrete beneath him. George jerked his hands back but didn’t move away. Instead, he pulled Matty into his arms and held him there, seemingly unbothered by the fact that he was pissing himself like a child. He hushed him quietly, stroking between his shoulder blades, and Matty found his embrace strangely calming. Just for a moment, it didn’t matter that he was soaking his jeans, because George had hold of him. His piss stopped before his tears did, but only just. He felt empty, but not in a good way. Hollow. 

“Don’t tell anybody,” he said feebly into George’s shoulder, and his bandmate hummed in assent. He knew it would be obvious to Ross and Adam; he couldn’t exactly hide the wet patch that covered his whole crotch and most of his thighs. 

“Sorry,” he said as he pulled his face from George’s shoulder. The drummer just shrugged. 

"Accidents happen."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stream noacf xxx


	2. 'In which way?'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so i did it  
> pls don't ask why there was no bathroom on the bus btw i can't tell you i have no idea  
> i have no idea when this is set but i think matty has pretty short hair in my mind so like. make of that what you will. death of the author or whatever the fuck idk imagine whatever you want.  
> also i dont think i made this very clear but for the sake of this chapter pls assume that matty and george are like friends with benefits  
> thx

Matty planned it this time. 

They were still touring America, waking up in a different city every day, but they were doing a run of a couple of shows somewhere in California, so for the first time in weeks, they were in a hotel for the night. 

The incident on the bus a couple of weeks back was still fresh in Matty’s mind. Thankfully, things had mostly gone back to normal; all of the guys accepted that it wasn’t something to joke about, and so the very next day it was as if nothing had ever happened. George had been a little cautious for a while, but had very quickly stopped treating Matty like he was made of glass, which he was thankful for, because it had been driving him crazy. He still made sure Matty got off the bus at every rest stop they took, woke him up if he was asleep; he didn’t say anything, but he winced every time Matty had a lot to drink all at once. More than once, Matty drank a whole cup of water in one go, just to see George eye him cautiously. 

And that was definitely the only reason he did it. 

He had thought a lot about the incident, but more frequently his thoughts were occupied by something that had happened just before. He had been totally blinded by his desperation, not thinking straight, not paying any attention to his actions, and caught himself grinding against the hands he had clamped between his thighs. It had been on his mind a lot; the way he’d done it without even thinking, the way it had felt almost disappointing to stop, the fact that it had felt good, better than just sneakily rubbing his cock through his jeans under the table. It intrigued him, and every time he thought about it, about doing it again, his cock stirred. 

He’d never dared explore it too far, partly because of his constant close proximity to his bandmates and the occasional-yet-firm suspicion that George could read his mind, and partly because he didn’t want to risk another accident. Tonight, though, he was in a room of his own, and he had all the time in the world to explore this possible new fantasy — or whatever it was. 

So, he planned it this time. 

He went to the bathroom when they got off the bus in California and then resolved not to go again for the rest of the night. They ate before the show, and Matty watched George watch him finish his second glass of coke in an hour. He hid a smile in his cup at the way George’s eyes darted away when Matty caught him looking. There was water in their dressing room. Matty picked up a bottle just to have something to do with his hands. There was something nervous in his stomach that came from more than just performing. As they went on stage, there was a slight twinge in his bladder — really only noticeable if he thought about it — but by the third or fourth song they played it had already doubled in intensity. It excited him, filled him with an energy he couldn’t describe. By the end of the show, he was struggling to stand still, though whether it was from nervous anticipation or his rapidly growing need, he wasn’t sure. 

After the show, he went straight outside. The cold night air was a stark contrast to the muggy heat inside the venue, and it sent a shiver straight through him. Just like when he’d gotten off the bus before, the cold went straight to his bladder, and had to shift from foot to foot to try and keep his composure. He stood with his thighs pressed together in a way he hoped wasn’t too obvious while he waited for a cab. The guys would wonder where he had gone so quickly; he would have to make up some lie about bringing a girl back to his hotel room. He didn’t doubt that they would actually be doing so after weeks on the tour bus, and he didn’t blame them, but tonight he had plans better than girls. He hoped, anyway. The thought of it certainly excited him. 

The bumpy cab ride was a struggle, and he hoped that the driver didn’t pay much mind to him fidgeting constantly in the backseat; crossing and uncrossing his legs, squeezing his thighs together, trying to inconspicuously hold himself. Sitting down made the waistband of his grey trousers press into his abdomen at a new angle that he hadn’t thought about, and he came dangerously close to leaking several times on the drive. 

He was the only one in the elevator. He let himself bounce in place as it rose to his floor. 

When he got to his room, he took his phone from his pocket; he imagined that it would be a very awkward conversation if it was suddenly water-damaged. There was a text from George waiting for him:  _ ‘Where did you go?’ _

_ ‘Getting my dick wet mate’ _

Matty felt bad for lying, even though it wasn’t technically a lie. That  _ was  _ the plan. He had no other choice, though; this wasn’t a sex thing that he felt like he could tell George about, which was different, because usually they shared these things, typically in giggly, breathy whispers after a lot of weed and maybe some lazy kissing.

He shut his phone off and put it facedown on the bedside table. 

Now that he was here, though, he wasn’t really sure what to do. He hadn’t planned this far, just knew that he was going to get desperate and then get off. Did he just take his cock out and jerk off like normal? That didn’t feel right; he’d still been fully clothed on the bus. But the thought of leaving his pants on and grinding on something was humiliating — although, wasn’t that part of the appeal? He sat on the edge of the bed for a long time and considered the pillows. If he folded one in half and then clamped it between his thighs, he could grind on it, and it might be enough. He reached out tentatively, scared as if someone might see, and felt one. It would probably work; they weren’t too soft. It felt too performative, though, unnatural: on the bus, he hadn’t been thinking about getting off, just about not wetting himself. The pleasure was an afterthought, and he’d stopped himself when he’d noticed. So, did it have to be that way again? Did he just have to wait, let himself grow truly desperate, and then just not stop when he started palming himself through the front of his trousers? 

That felt better; in his head, he could see it more clearly. He didn’t feel like he would become ashamed halfway through and force himself to stop, because it wasn’t  _ about  _ pleasure, it wasn’t about getting off, he wasn’t chasing an orgasm, he was just trying not to piss himself. 

It was just about playing the waiting game, then, he supposed. He put the TV on, though mostly for background noise, and picked up his phone again. He had another text from George. _ ‘Yeah? In what way? ;)’ _

That made heat rise in his cheeks. Matty could all but hear the teasing tone in his voice. He wanted to tell him to fuck off, but if he was going to keep up the charade of getting off with a girl, he figured he should actually act like he was busy. He worried for a moment if George knew, but reasoned that if he did — which he couldn’t, really, because Matty had tried to keep it as discreet as possible — he would never bring it up. What would he even say?  _ I know you pissed yourself on purpose last night _ . It wasn’t exactly casual breakfast conversation.

For a long time, Matty occupied himself with his phone, and he was fine with sitting on the bed with his legs tightly crossed, but then he shifted to sit in a more comfortable position, and suddenly all of the pressure was on his bladder. He inhaled sharply, jamming a hand between his legs to hold himself, but a short leak still escaped him. He cursed under his breath; he could feel it soaking into the fabric under his fingers. So this was how it started. He had to change position again so that his waistband wasn’t cutting so sharply into his abdomen. The need was starting to hit him in waves, occasionally making him wince and squirm against the sheets as he felt like he was going to leak again. 

He wasn’t sure if it was the growing pressure on his bladder occupying most of his thoughts, or if he had just exhausted all of the things that could hold his attention, but he was very suddenly uninterested in his phone. In a way, it was an advantage; he had both hands free now, and without him even thinking, as soon as his second hand was no longer busy, it joined his first between his legs. He tried to focus on the TV now, but it was still just as hard to concentrate even with the extra hand between his legs. The only thoughts that he could fathom were about how badly he had to go, how good it would feel to finally release all of this built-up pressure inside him. It was becoming increasingly harder to stay still; if he wasn’t squirming to try and find a position that didn’t put even more unnecessary pressure on his bladder, he was bouncing or rocking in place, desperate to keep moving, anything to stop himself from leaking — or worse. 

He only noticed that he was whining when the TV went quiet and his needy whimpers rang out into the still air. Sure enough, his cock was half-hard in his pants, and he had been uselessly rutting against his palms without even realising. This was what he wanted, he reminded himself, this was the plan. It sent a thrill of excitement through him, which made him writhe against the sheets again to try and stay in control. He was excited now; his plan was working. All he had to do was sufficiently distract himself again, enough that he could start grinding on his hands without realising. Once he was hard, he could stop trying not to think about it and start actually trying to get off, but for now, he couldn’t put too much thought into it, or he would psych himself out. 

He couldn’t focus on the TV anymore. In the end, he just turned it off. He was nervous, unable to focus on anything, pulled out of the moment entirely. Instead of trying to get back to wherever he had been before, he closed his eyes and tried to imagine himself back on the bus. He couldn’t act like he was too desperate or his bandmates would see, but he couldn’t sit still or he would surely wet himself. He just had to be discreet about it, had to make small movements and pretend like nothing was wrong. When he caught his breath stuttering, he went deeper into his thoughts; where was he? Who else was there? What was the road like? Exactly what had he been drinking all day? How far away was the next stop? 

He was sat at the table — no, on the couch. George was at the table with his laptop, only wearing one headphone, eyes flitting back and forth from the screen to Matty. The road was bumpy; they kept hitting holes. It was making him struggle to hold on; he was leaking more than he would care to admit. If George looked at him for too long, he would be able to see the wet patch growing with every jolt of the bus. What had he been drinking? Did it matter? He just knew there had been a lot of it. They wouldn’t stop for a while, which was why he had to hold on, which is why he was holding himself so tightly, why he didn’t stop himself from bucking his hips into his hands. 

A low, breathy moan escaped him, dragging him out of his thoughts. He was achingly hard beneath his hands, and he couldn’t stay still. He caught sight of himself reflected in the TV screen; his hair was in his face, his cheeks were flushed, and he couldn’t see, but he knew his pupils were blown wide. Experimentally, he took his hands away from his crotch, still ogling his reflection. Despite the protests from his bladder, he spread his thighs, watching the way the damp fabric of his trousers clung to his erection. He looked like something out of a magazine. 

His only choice now was to get off; he couldn’t piss if he was hard, and the sight of his own reflection was certainly doing nothing to alleviate that. Maybe it was fucked up that he found the sight of himself, flustered and desperate, to be actually sexy. But, right now, he was the only one who could appreciate it. And it  _ was  _ something to be appreciated — his flushed cheeks and wide eyes were almost doll-like, and the outline of his erection begged to be touched. He slid a hand down his torso, tugging at the few buttons on his shirt that were still fastened after the show, and started to palm himself slowly through the wet fabric. The feeling of his wet briefs rubbing against his cock made him shudder, and his hips bucked forward of their own accord. 

He let his thoughts drift back to the bus — the hazy, fantasy one from his mind earlier, not the real one — with George on his laptop and all the bumps on the road. He was whining loud, loud enough to hear clearly in the empty hotel room, or on a quiet bus. He could picture George watching him from the table — in his periphery at first, then turning to face him properly, raking his eyes over every inch of him, drinking in the sight of him, his flushed face, his swollen abdomen, the shining, wet bulge in his pants. 

In Matty’s head, he was putting on a show for George, performing, making a spectacle out of biting his lip and bucking his hips into his hands, squeezing his thighs together and arching off the couch. For a split second in his mind, the hands on him were not his own, but George’s, rubbing him through his wet clothes. The thought drew a moan from low in his chest. He wanted George to see him like this, to praise him for holding on so well, to tell him that he could keep holding for  _ just a little longer _ , that he  _ would _ ; grabbing his hair maybe, kissing his jaw. He wanted George to be the one to tell him when he could let go, to hold him by the wrist when he squirmed and hiss in his ear for him to  _ sit still _ . He wanted George’s hands on him, wanted George  _ here _ , touching him, pulling needy whines from his throat, making his orgasm build in his stomach— 

“Oh, fuck—” he breathed, forcing himself to pull his hands away, leaving himself uselessly pushing his hips out into empty air. If he came, he was going to make a mess, both of the sheets and his outfit, because he definitely wasn’t going to be able to remain in control through his orgasm. And as hot as it sounded to totally lose control, have another proper accident and make a mess of himself, he had to sleep in this bed tonight, and didn’t want to have to explain himself to some poor hotel employee, or make someone else clean up his mess. 

He stumbled from the bed into the bathroom, where at least there was no carpet. Getting in the shower felt stupid, but he quickly realised that it would be his only option if he wanted to finish playing out this fantasy and minimalise the mess. He leaned his back against the wall and closed his eyes, tried to forget where he was again and put his mind back on the bus with George; George’s hands, his mouth, his voice in Matty’s ear, lips on his neck. One of his hands on the front of Matty’s trousers, palming him through the fabric, the other pressing on his full bladder, making him arch and whimper as he struggled to hold on. Every noise he made was amplified tenfold in the echoey bathroom, and he was hyperaware of how much he was whining, of every stutter of his breath. He could all but hear George in his head telling him how pretty he sounded, sucking and biting at his collarbones just to hear him whine, pressing harder against his bladder to make him moan and shudder and struggle not to leak. 

That was what pushed him over the edge; the thought of George kissing his neck and pressing on his bladder until he wet himself.

When he came, he bent almost double at the waist, clutching at the wall and the edge of the glass shower screen. His legs trembled as his orgasm crashed through him, unlike anything he had ever felt before, pleasure heightened tenfold by the pressure in his bladder. Spots danced in front of his vision. His moans rang out against the tiles. He didn’t have even a moment to recover before piss came pouring out of him, splashing noisily onto the floor, dripping down his thighs and soaking his trousers. His moans dissolved into heavy, shaky sighs, and then as his bladder emptied, into quiet whimpers. He stood there for a long time even after he had finished, still doubled over, still clutching the edge of the screen. He didn’t trust his legs to support him; they were still trembling. He didn’t know how long he stood there, head dipped low between his shoulder blades, thighs still pressed together, breath slowly becoming less ragged and unsteady. When he straightened himself out again, he winced at the way his wet clothes clung to his skin. 

He needed a shower, and he would need to figure out a way to wash these clothes before the morning. When he stood under the running water, his mind wandered back to earlier, to how he’d thought about George, telling him to hold it, pressing on his bladder, getting him off while he was desperate. And then, George — real George — on the bus, teasing, asking if he’d be able to hold on till they next stopped, his voice a mix of taunting and genuinely concerned. And then tonight; the way George had watched him drinking at dinner, and that text —  _ in which way? _

Did he know? Would he say anything? At breakfast tomorrow morning, would he raise his eyebrows when Matty took a sip of coffee? If Matty asked him, would George do the things he’d fantasised about? 

He shook his head of the thought and shut off the water. He was getting ahead of himself. 

He dressed in some clean clothes and fished his phone from where he had left it in the sheets, intent on looking up the nearest laundromat. There were two more texts from George flashing on his home screen. As he read it, he realised with dawning alarm that they were currently sharing a hotel wall. 

_ ‘Nevermind’ _

_ ‘I know which way’ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fucksake  
> im going to have to do two more chapters of this godforsaken thing. idk when they'll be posted bc i literally did the first one within the day that notes was released and then this next one took me 6 days. so watch this space ig.  
> i rlly want to write matty wetting in a skirt. also a really nice suit. also with george there. maybe both times.  
> for less coherent writing than this (and probably some more nsfw posts) follow me on tumblr @daffodil75  
> hell, send me an ask. i'll write you something. just for you. a leetol gift. kinky as you like as long as it doesn't involve feet. i'll write you some piss. is that what the kids are into these days? do people on tumblr still do that? send asks and write piss for each other? they should. come over to my blog and we can make it happen again. it'll be nice.


	3. Dry Spell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somehow i wrote and edited this whole thing in one day. the one before this took me a whole ass week. the mind + productivity of a caffeinated gay with adhd is an enigma.  
> this one is slightly less piss-centric (there is still piss dw) but the next one will be 100% piss I swear (maybe there will be some blowjobs.... maybe.)  
> also I tried a kind of different structure in this chapter. let me know if you like it.  
> also if you like this fic you'll really like my tumblr @daffofil75 where I do things like this but every day and on request. come say hi :)

George knew.

There was absolutely no way that George  _ didn’t  _ know. 

Matty had deliberately not replied to his text last night, gone out with his wet clothes in a plastic bag and found a laundromat, come back in the early hours of the morning and fallen dead asleep, then woke up to his agonisingly early alarm, pulled out of a dream that had him grinding against the mattress in his sleep. 

When he opened the door to his room, Adam was outside it, waiting. 

“Oh,” he startled. “Hello. I didn’t think you’d be awake.”

Matty looked at him. He didn’t seem like he was being sarcastic. 

“Why?”

Adam shrugged the one shoulder that wasn’t leaning against the wall. “You had a long night. I assume, anyway.”

Matty stared at him in confused, horrified silence. Did he know as well? Had George told him? How could he know? What gave it away?”

“George said you went off with a girl. I figured you’d been up late.”

Matty cursed himself for lying. He hadn’t considered that he would have to fabricate a story to go with it, and he would almost definitely slip up under pressure. 

“Yeah,” he said, shifting nervously. “Something like that.”

Luckily, Adam left it there, looked at his phone and didn’t move. He was probably waiting for George, which meant Matty would have to talk to George, which meant— 

“Morning,” Adam said cheerily to the sound of the opening door. Matty set his teeth.

He wished the ground would open up and swallow him whole. He gave George the steadiest smile he could manage and begged him not to say anything. 

Ross was already down at breakfast. Looking around the table, Matty was relieved to find that his bandmates all looked equally tired, so his own lack of sleep wouldn’t stand out. They ate fairly peacefully, and Matty slowly let his guard down. He decided he was just being paranoid, that none of them knew, except maybe George, but he was staying quiet about it, so if he did know, it didn’t matter. 

And then, he stood up to get another cup of coffee, and George said, “Might want to slow down, knowing what you’re like, mate.”

Matty shot him a glare and hurried away from the table before the questions could come. 

*

There was some small part of Matty that wanted to punch George in the face every time he brought it up. There was a much bigger part that wanted to drag him into the bathroom and fuck him in the stall. Right now he wasn’t sure which part was winning. 

They were alone for just a moment in their dressing room. Matty could feel George’s eyes on him without even looking. Silently, the drummer stood up and crossed the room, sat beside Matty and pressed his lips against his ear and said, “Are you doing it right now?”

He wasn’t, but he wished he was. He wished he could say yes, and then have George say,  _ good, _ and then kiss him in the taxi on the way back to the hotel and then wet himself in his lap.

“No.”

George hummed. “Shame.”

He was gone as quickly as he had arrived. Matty didn’t see him again until they went on stage. After the show, he saw George disappearing with some lad that looked like he was trying too hard to be Matty five years ago.

_ Fine, _ Matty thought. _ Play that game. _

*

Nothing happened between them for weeks. Matty kept wishing something would. He was restless, jumpy. He wished George would come knocking on his door and say more of those knowing things to him, even when he wasn’t holding. He wasn’t holding much these days. After the night in California, he had done it a couple of times, but the clean-up was arduous and he was anxious the morning after, and, more than anything else, he was sick of doing it on his own.

He wanted George. He didn’t care how. He didn’t care if it was the most vanilla thing in existence; he missed getting off with George, period. It was past two am most nights before Matty accepted that it wasn’t happening, and it was probably too late to try and initiate anything, not that he would ever have the balls. Initiating wasn’t his job. He didn’t do it, ever, and now was no exception. He always wound up with his face pressed into the pillow, biting his lip to try and stifle his moans as he came on his own hands, with George’s name on his lips.

*

He planned it again. 

He dared George to ask. Like he had in California; come and sit by him and brush his lips against the shell of Matty’s ear and ask if he was doing it. Be surprised when Matty said yes. He dared him to see the way he was putting away water and say something shrewd and knowing, just for Matty to prove him right. He had chosen this outfit specially, because he wanted George to see him wet in it so badly. On the surface, it was nothing special, just a well-fitting shirt and tie and a pair of black dress pants, but he looked  _ good _ , and he knew he did. Normally, he would know that George was ogling him from behind the drums anyway, but tonight, he dared him not to look, not to notice. 

George didn’t say anything before they went on stage. They were sat in their dressing room for ages. Matty kept drinking to try and get him to look over and raise his eyebrows. His stomach was heavy and full of water. It was uncomfortable until he realised that soon, that heavy, full feeling would be in his bladder, and then it was worth it. If only George would  _ say something _ . If he didn’t notice, he was blind. If he noticed and stayed quiet on purpose, he was being a dick. 

Matty left it until the last possible moment to say something, still holding onto the hope that George would let on that he’d known the whole time. His silence was infuriating. Matty couldn’t find the words.

Just before they went on stage, he pulled George aside by the collar and murmured in his ear, "You’re blind if you don’t know what I’m going to tell you."

George smirked and snaked a hand around his waist, pulled him close, and kissed his lips. He lingered there, only pulling away when he absolutely had to. Matty wobbled on stage and grinned the whole way through their set.

*

He was bouncing when he came off stage, though from nerves or excitement or desperation, he wasn't sure. George kissed him the whole car ride back to the hotel while he struggled to sit still, hungry and frantic and  _ all  _ hands, grabbing at his clothes, rubbing over his stomach, tangling in his hair, pulling at his tie. Matty tipped the cab driver three times what their fare cost in recompense. 

Outside was cold. George’s hotel room was cold too. Matty struggled not to leak. 

George pulled him into his lap and kissed him. The position was impossible: his thighs were spread where he straddled George’s hips, and his hands were always somewhere else — George’s hair or George’s clothes or George’s face — so he couldn’t hold himself. 

When George started kissing his neck again, he stopped caring. They rutted against one another, still fully clothed, like they were teenagers again, horny and stupid. Matty’s head was spinning like he needed to come up for air.

He was half-hard before George even touched him. There was also a wet patch on his slacks the size of a tennis ball. George smirked when he saw it. 

He seemed to know what to do without Matty even telling him; he never once went for Matty’s belt, just palmed him through the front of his dress pants and kissed him like the world was going to end. Matty let himself get lost in the taste of George’s lips after so long, his familiar and blissful touch. 

He was pulled out of his euphoria when George settled a large hand over his swollen bladder. He wasn’t pressing, just holding it there, still working on sucking a hickey high above Matty’s collar that would no doubt be a bitch to try and cover up tomorrow. He did it on purpose. In this moment, Matty didn’t care. 

“What are you doing?” he breathed, resting one hand on top of George’s. The drummer detached his lips from Matty’s skin, pressing a few lingering kisses to the bruise. 

“Don’t you want me to?”

In answer, Matty did not move his hand. 

“I’ll wet myself.” Not a warning. Just a fact.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?”

George’s voice was caramel. Matty was convinced that he could talk him to orgasm without touching him at all. 

“Make me come first.”

“Make  _ me  _ come first,” George echoed — a flash of dominance, the kind they only really had time for when they were at home — and Matty shivered. He slid to the floor and positioned himself in between George’s knees, thankful for the opportunity to finally press his thighs together again. The change of position still made him leak, and he gripped George’s knee as he fought momentarily for control. George pushed a hand into his hair and tugged. 

They had done this dance a thousand times. Matty got to the floor, George toyed with him a bit, he acted sweet and said he would play nice, said that Matty needn’t rush, and then pushed his head down so that Matty choked for a second when he got bored. It was a game they always played. Matty could tap out of he needed to — if he tapped George’s thigh, he would be off within seconds. But he didn’t. He never did; he never needed to. He was good at sucking cock — good at sucking  _ George’s  _ cock.

Now was no exception. 

He whined a lot more this time, and spent a while bouncing in place until George grabbed his hair and told him to  _ stay still _ . That made a shiver pass through him, and his cock pulsed in his dress pants. He had to pull off once and force himself to breathe as a particularly heavy wave of desperation passed through him. He still leaked. George pulled him by the hair and told him to  _ hold it _ . 

Without fail, when George came, Matty swallowed. Again, just because he had to piss didn’t mean this time was an exception. When he crawled back up onto George’s lap, he cooed at him, called him a  _ good boy _ , cupped his face and kissed his jaw. Matty whined and tugged at George’s sleeve —  _ touch me _ . 

George did. He knew how to get Matty off over his clothes from years of quick, discreet, intense moments, way, way back. His name was on Matty’s lips like a mantra, increasing in volume and pace as he neared his orgasm. 

“George, George,  _ George _ — George, please— If—  _ fuck! _ — If I come, I’m going to— to  _ wet myself, _ George—  _ George—  _ it’s— I’m going to make a  _ mess _ , George.”

George looked him in the eye as he brought him to orgasm. 

*

They sat in the laundromat together this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> matty's gonna wet himself in a skirt in the next chapter :))))  
> also ik I said it before but follow my Tumblr @daffodil75 i write over there. you can send requests. we have a good time :)


End file.
